


The Grand Scheme of Things

by faintyoungsun (sadlygrove)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Heaven, Historical, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Reincarnation, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/faintyoungsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Castiel, you may not agree with me, but I know you better than a mother knows her squirming child. Better than you even know yourself."</p>
<p>"You don't." </p>
<p>"We have a history, you and I." Naomi's lips twist into something wistful. "The first time I reprogrammed you, I had to go in through your nose with a long set of pliers."</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Naomi digs deep into the corners of Castiel's brain, letting loose memories long suppressed. Lifetimes are unearthed, ones in which a stubborn angel went to earth for one righteous man before he was such. </p>
<p>Castiel would recognize that soul anywhere, anytime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Scrambled Egg You Call A Brain

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter just has to be proofread. Rating will likely bump up to Explicit in a few chapters. More character tags will be added as they appear.
> 
> Thank you for commenting, if you do. I sincerely appreciate your critique.

"Do you know how many times I've been in that scrambled egg you call a brain?"

Castiel is tied down in the chair, a bit of blood dripping from the corner of his eye. He stares into the distance, the ceiling, Heaven beyond. Bonds are cutting into his wrists and ankles, and for all that he is a supreme being crafted in God's loving hand, Castiel cannot move an inch. 

God has left the building. This is Naomi's domain.

"Technically," Castiel drawls, wetting his parched lips, "I don't have a brain as I am a wave of--" 

"Yes, yes, I know." Naomi wipes her drill clean with a pristine white cloth, all the while staring at Castiel with great distaste. Her offence is palpable and thick in the air despite the professional attitude she reserves for tampering with Castiel's memories. "Three times, Castiel, not counting my current ministrations."

Castiel frowns, confused. "Three?" The number scrapes from his throat, a bin of rusty nails.

"Bloodline restrictions aside, I always find it surprising that you choose such similar looking hosts. Your predilection for humans is glaringly obvious, Castiel, and--as I've told you time and again--it makes you quite weak."

"James Novak is my first ves--"

"He isn't. Wasn't." The drill whirls in Naomi's grip, a test. "Perhaps he may be your last," she says with a clinical distance in her voice.

Naomi sets down the clean drill and turns away.

 

Castiel knows he's been in Naomi's office before. He knows it in the back of his not-there brain, has seen the cold fixtures and clean white lines before. And while he's never been to a dentist personally, there were enough memories in Jimmy's head to display the similarities. 

Except Castiel is to have his cortex drilled through instead of a molar.

At her desk, Naomi busies herself with preparing a cup of coffee from a stainless steel Keurig that Castiel finds slightly less disconcerting than her 'I Hate Mondays' mug with the orange cartoon cat. Otherwise, Naomi reminds him of the hospital director from _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ for a moment, her pantsuit immaculate and heels clicking on glossy tiles. 

Dean would laugh at that. Will laugh at that, when they're together next.

Naomi stares at him over the rim of the mug raised to her lips, eyes distant. "The last time you were in my chair, I really thought I had gotten this out of your system," she sighs.

Castiel looks at her, a sticky feeling in his gut. "That was you?" 

"Of course it was. I had thought that my new technology was infallible." A small frown crosses her face. "It seemed to work wonders on Anael for a time."

"You could be lying."

Naomi takes a sip of Arabian black and rolls her eyes. "Who else would venture so deep, to clean the cobwebs from your cranium? Others would be lost in it," she says, so matter-of-fact. "I can tell you that much, Castiel."

The coffee break is over soon, drill back in Naomi's fingers, shiny and clean. "Castiel, you may not agree with me, but I know you better than a mother knows her squirming child. Better than you even know yourself."

"You don't." Castiel leans back in the chair, pressing himself as far from Naomi's voice as possible. 

"I know that the first time he embraced you was in Purgatory."

Naomi's voice is light and lilting, a slap to his face.

"I know that it took every particle of your grace, every molecule of stardust in your veins to keep from embracing him back, lest those creatures saw how much you love him."

When Naomi's face hovers over Castiel's, blocking the light in an eclipse of cool blue eyes and subdued makeup, she seems almost nostalgic. "We have a history, you and I." Pink-painted lips twist into something wistful. "The first time I reprogrammed you, I had to go in through your nose with a long set of pliers."

If there was any food in Castiel's stomach, he's sure he'd wretch it right up.

"Now, then."

Castiel's heart begins to hammer in his chest. 

"Hold still, Castiel. I have to dig fairly deep this time."

The drill comes to life, a roar in Castiel's ears.

"Bear with me," Naomi says, voice professional above the din. "Who knows what I may dig up."  
 _  
wwhhhhhHHRRRRRR...._


	2. Your First Time With the Monkeys

  
In the beginning,  
you were told not to step on a particular mud-dwelling,  
bottom feeding creature of the primordial ooze.  
That was the first order you were ever given.

It was probably the only order you've ever fully obeyed.

 

**ROMAN ITALY, OCTOBER 312 AD**

Castiel knows it's Dean, knows it isn't Dean. The man is older, looks similar in the jawline and eye color, yet different elsewhere. He is older, this man, by several decades, lines creasing his face. He is decked out in the splendor of leather and metal, sandals and a flowing cape. But, oh, his soul is still the radiant beacon that guided Castiel through each layer of Hell, through sulfur and chains and flesh on hooks. Castiel could recognize that soul anywhere.

And yet, Castiel has no memory of this.

The tent is almost lavish, covered in furs and deep blue cloth, cerulean and scarlet. Maps are scattered everywhere, swords and axes placed more neatly on their racks. The tent is warm, yet not stifling, incense overlaying the scent of horses and blood and mud and men, a commotion of nighttime outside. 

The Dean who is not Dean is smirking, holding up a shield with a freshly painted symbol upon it. "Constantine says he had a dream that, if he put the Christian cross on our shields, we'd win the battle." He chuckles, hanging the shield between a longsword and a hunting bow. 

"In Hoc Signo Vinces--with this sign, you will conquer."

"Was that your doing?" Dean lifts an eyebrow. "Since I know how much you love invading peoples' sleep."

At a low table inlaid with ivory, Castiel finds himself bored and flipping through a pile of scrolls in a patch of candlelight. "I have better things to occupy my time, I assure you. That sounds like something Raphael would do, though."

"Oh?"

"Raphael is, perhaps, more forward in his displays when given a mission."

"Impatient, you mean."

Castiel knows he shouldn't speak ill of his brother, but finds himself nodding. "Raphael prefers to... push things along, rather than have them take their course."

"I can see that." Dean rolls his shoulders, the left one popping with a crack. "So are you going to help us on the battlefield, Castiel? We'll be at the Milvian Bridge before you know it." 

Castiel traces the lines on a map, wondering how many more years it will take for humans to fill in the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. "It is not within the scope of my mission." Castiel glances up from the paper. "But I'll watch over you."

Dean huffs out a sigh, lines around his eyes crinkling with a fond smile. "You weren’t so shy in Verona." 

Blue eyes return to the map. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“My mistake; I suppose a mighty wind blew out the fire that was licking our heels.”

“Verona cannot be windy?” Castiel asks.

Dean chuckles and lets the topic die. He pours himself a cup of wine, a second for Castiel, and sits across from him. "I would've thought that you'd have left us by now."

"Why is that," Castiel murmurs, flipping to another page. He tries not to smirk when he sees the meandering lines that are supposed to be Africa's shape. It looks ridiculous.

"Well, you got me to to beg Constantine to cross those damned mountains to wage a preemptive attack on Maxentius... Now there are rumors that Constantine has a divine sight or some sort of spiritual connection to the gods.”

Castiel snorts. 

“Seems like that'd be enough meddling." Dean shrugs, takes a gulp of wine. "Those soothsayers who liked to kiss Constantine's ass aren't very fond of me, by the way, even if the battle in Verona did go well. I feel like you owe me one for putting my reputation on the line."

"Surely Constantine's favored centurion will find favor with these old soothsayers again." 

"Flatterer."

"Warmonger." 

“Guilty.”

“Hm.” Castiel smiles and reaches for his own cup, inspecting the contents. He watches the red liquid slosh up and down the sides, wonders for a moment how many Romans will die tomorrow. Hades will be busy. "I've... come to enjoy your company, I suppose."

"Come to enjoy drinking me under the table, you mean."

"That as well." Castiel takes a long, slow sip of sour wine. "I will make sure you return to your wife and grandchildren." He meets steady green eyes. "The enemy of Rome will die soon, make no mistake."

Comfortable silence manages to fill the centurion tent, despite the constant braying of horses and shouts of men from the camp outside.

Dean leans back in his chair, fiddling with his cup of wine. "I've haven’t been there in years, yet Rome is just a few days’ march away. I know why Constantine wants it, of course." Dean's mouth is a slight, curious frown, yet his voice is not untrusting. "Why do your lot want him to have it?"

“Does it worry you?”

“Why would it?”

Castiel shrugs, brushing a long strand of dark hair behind his ear. “You worship Apollo.”

“I make sacrifices and throw bags of money to Apollo’s priests.” Dean rolls his eyes. “But I’ve never seen Apollo. Answer the question, Castiel.”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, knowing he should be angered by the demand. Instead he is intrigued, as he usually is, by Dean’s brash nature in the face of an all-powerful being that could smite his body to dust. "Rome is important," Castiel says.

"Yeah, to humans. Why is it important to you?"

Castiel sloshes the wine around his cup again. "Because it's Rome."

"Don’t speak against the sun," Dean snorts. “You think I’m a fool?”

"I don't think you’re a--"

"Everyone knows Augustus Maximinus has been a brute to the Christians in Rome." Dean polishes off the rest of his wine and leans forward. "You give Constantine a sign, see that he wins this next fight, maybe he's in your debt. Am I close?"

A pink tongue traces Castiel's lips, picking up the taste of wine. "Does this bother you?"

"Does it matter? You saved my brother’s life. I owe you a debt." Dean shrugs and grins. "It's not a bad plan, Castiel, giving Constantine that dream. Were you the one who came up with it?"

Castiel meets Dean's eyes again, eyes that are bright and eager and entirely too wicked for a man of his years. This is Dean in his element, Dean in the utmost of his prime. Castiel hopes that every lifetime will be like this for Dean, knowing that it is an impossible wish. 

That’s just not the way things work.

"Perhaps I was."

With a brusque laugh, Dean rises to refill their cups.

 

Castiel brushes down the black mare, finding the actions to be surprising in their tranquility. The other horse grooms--strator, they are called--appear calm as well, tending to their own beasts. True, Castiel could just as soon blink and have the horse ready for Dean, but he has come to enjoy taking care of her. ‘Aepyceros’ is what Dean calls her, and she is as nimble as her name. Powerful, too. Castiel considers her beautiful. She is the first earthly thing he has ever regarded as such. 

She will, Castiel thinks, not be the last.

The walk back to the tent is an easy path through men and makeshift stables, slaves sharpening weapons, drill instructors shouting and soldiers calling back in unison. Castiel smells lunch being cooked, the scent of game wafting through the camp. It is a strange scent--though all scents are odd to Castiel, truth be told--and he finds himself almost ashamed by how much he enjoys it. He hurries to Dean’s housing, resisting the urge to use his wings to get there.

"I wanted to ask you about the man whose body you’ve taken," Dean says as soon as Castiel pulls back the flap.

Castiel starts. This is the first time Dean has mentioned the vessel. "He is a good man."

"I know. He's worked in my house for many years now." Dean turns from where he is hunched over a parchment. His eyes search up and down Castiel's form, discerning. "Will he remember all of this?"

Castiel lowers the entryway cloth, careful to wipe most of the mud from his sandals. "I’m unsure. I've never been inside a vessel before."

Dean nods once and motions for Castiel to join him at the table. Two cups are already laid out. "Well, it doesn't make much difference. I've decided I'm going to set him free when this is over. If he wants freedom, that is."

“That is kind of you.”

"Yeah, well..." Dean returns to his attention to his parchment.

Castiel sits opposite and watches Dean work, quietly impressed. Dean maps out the field of battle using new information the scouts have given him. Ages ago, Castiel did much the same for Heaven's forces, though by comparison to Dean he was low in rank. Sipping at his wine, Castiel finds an easy peace observing Dean lay the path of battle. 

He wonders what it would have been like to fight beside Dean, had Michael allowed such direct intervention. Castiel suspects it would have been glorious.

An hour later, Dean breaks the silence: “Do you know what work your vessel did for me? Before you possessed him.”

“He looked after your stables.”

“And?” Dean takes a sip of wine, eyes unblinking, staring, waiting.

Castiel does not miss a beat: “He was your lover for a time.”

Dean smirks. “When I was younger and more handsome, yes.” Green eyes fill with wicked mirth. “Though I still find him pleasant to look at.”

“You may not know it,” Castiel drawls, “but two cities were destroyed when last man desired to touch an angel against their will.”

“Thinking with our dicks, that sounds about right,” Dean laughs. “It’s a shame you’re not more like my gods. Zeus must have fathered hundreds of bastards.”

“I can neither confirm nor refute that. We’ve not met.”

Dean laughs mid-sip, nearly choking on his wine. Castiel smiles and lifts his cup to his lips.

 

The morning of the battle at the Milvian Bridge, Castiel helps Dean don his armor. Two golden greaves about his shins, a leather tunic, followed by light mail. Through the clasps and hooks Castiel laces metal rings and plates, bold declarations of the deeds that Dean has done in his lifetime of service. 

Dean is still, lifting his arms when needed, watching each plate attached to his chest, speaking only when Castiel fastens his cape: “You’re a natural.”

“I find the memories within the vessel useful,” Castiel murmurs. He is the one performing the actions, of course, but it is through a fog. He allows the memories to take over, move his fingers and clasp the cape.

“Will you remain long, after the battle?”

Castiel smooths out red fabric, draping it about Dean’s shoulders, close enough that he can see the sweat beginning to shine at Dean’s neck. “Who can say?”

Dean catches his wrist before he can move away. “If you do, let’s feast in Rome.” Dean smiles at him over his shoulder. “We’ll share wine and talk like the old warriors we are.”

“I… I would like that. Very much.”

“As would I.” Dean releases his wrist and turns to find his staff made of vine wood. “Unearthly being or not, I consider you a friend, Castiel.”

Before Castiel can answer, an Roman enters the tent and salutes. He is wearing, Castiel notes, the regalia of a tesserarius, third in command. "Sir, the corporals are gathered for the inspection."

"About damned time." Dean grabs his helmet, a crest of horsehair fanning at the top. "Ah... You; have my horse brought from the stables."

"Of course," Castiel says with a slight bow, remaining subservient until Dean exits with--Castiel notices--a wink behind the newcomer’s back.

The tent turns chilly as soon as Dean goes.

Castiel glances up at the tesserarius, mouth creasing into a thin line. “Although I suppose I don’t have to pretend to be a horse groom in front of you, brother.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Castiel holds back a sigh. “Uriel. What are you doing here?"

Uriel--the tesserarius--squares his broad shoulders, rising to an even higher height. "I'm here at the behest of Michael," Uriel says, voice turning cold and deep. "You have been here overlong. He requested I check in on you, see how well your first time with the monkeys is going."

"You can tell Michael that everything is moving according to plan. And how has your mission fared?"

“Maxentius has consulted the Sibylline Books. He believes he will be victorious.”

This time Castiel does not suppress his sigh: “When will men stop putting faith in oracles?”

“Hopefully never, the fools.” Uriel pulls back a bit of the main entry curtain with the tip of his spear, gazing out at the vast Roman camp. "That man sews the seeds of decline."

"He doesn't know that, Uriel." Castiel's eyes flicker to the camp outside. “Nor will he be alive to see the fall. Age will claim him before those years come."

"If we are to snuff out those pagan gods and take what's ours, every piece of the plan must go forward smoothly." Uriel's gaze moves back to Castiel. He lets the curtain fall shut. "Your task here is paramount."

"I am aware."

Uriel points the tip of his spear at Castiel's chest. "Do not allow your special relationship with the monkey's soul to interfere, Castiel."

Having a human weapon pointed at his vessel is so laughable that Castiel could never perceive it as a threat. All the same, something goes hot in the vessel's chest--his chest--and Castiel grabs the spearhead, jerking it forward, palm erupting with a squelch of blood and split flesh.

"Uriel." He squeezes the metal tighter, blood dripping like wine from a spilled cup. "I said that I am aware."

"Good. I worry about you sometimes, Castiel."

In a flap of wings, Uriel and the spear vanish.

Castiel feels the vessel's skin stitching together, and, hesitating with a single glance at two empty cups upon a wooden table, Castiel's wings follow. 

 

Though Dean does not see him again in that lifetime, Castiel watches the shields with the Christian symbol march towards Rome. Constantine sends the whole of his forces, his cavalry crashing into enemy lines like fire to wicker. Castiel watches Dean shout, Dean march, Dean joyful in the glory of battle. Castiel watches the collapse of the Milvian Bridge, Maxentius drowned under his own men into the depths of the river. 

After, Castiel hears Dean muttering to himself, talking out loud when no one else is around. It’s as if Castiel is still there. But, Castiel thinks, surely Dean cannot know?

He sees Dean begrudgingly set out two empty cups each night, arms crossed, all but glaring at some distant spot. 

Castiel shivers.

 

One month after Constantine is welcomed into Rome by the Senate, Dean finds a familiar slave at his doorstep, unable to answer questions about when and why he left Dean's estate up north. 

Dean frees the Christian man a day later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In Hoc Signo Vinces_ ; what Constantine is said to have heard in his dream.
> 
>  _adversus solem ne loquitor_ Don't speak against the sun (i.e., an obvious fact)
> 
> Roman [Centurion](http://www.roman-empire.net/army/centurion.html). So much info about ancient Rome can be found here, but basically Constantine the Great was the first emperor to convert to Christianity after the aforementioned battle. You can kind of get what I'm driving at.
> 
> From Wiki, (sorry, I'm in Korea and don't really have access to a library like I used to) about the exact symbol painted upon Constantine's shields: "Eusebius describes the sign as Chi (Χ) traversed by Rho (Ρ): ☧, a symbol representing the first two letters of the Greek spelling of the word Christos or Christ."
> 
> History nerds are encouraged to correct me on anything!


	3. Your Coffee's Getting Cold

The four silver spheres click in perfect time. _Click, click, click, click._ Castiel wonders how long he's been staring at them. 

"Was Sam also in that lifetime?"

Naomi's eyebrows shoot up, hands holding still the kettle just before the pour. "Excuse me?" she asks.

"Sam Winchester," Castiel clarifies.

"Of course you mean Sam Winchester, Castiel." Naomi's eyes narrow. "What do you mean by 'lifetime'?"

He looks up from where his eyes had been drilling a hole into the balls on Naomi's lacquered desk. "I saw a man with Dean's soul on the eve of Rome's collapse." Castiel fidgets, hands smoothing against his trousers. "I mean I was there, helping him."  
 _  
Click, click, click._

"Ah." Naomi resumes filling her coffee cup and a new one beside it. It reads 'West Virginia is For Lovers'. "I warned you that might happen, didn't I?"

She had, hadn't she? "The man said something about a brother--"

"Where one Winchester soul goes, the other is sure to follow." Naomi sets the coffee kettle aside and pours milk into the West Virginia mug, stirring with a long silver spoon. "As it has always been, it will always be." She pauses, glances up at the ceiling for a moment. "Well. Perhaps not any longer."

Castiel catches his reflection in the stainless steel kettle. His hair is a nest. Deep purple circles hang under his eyes, tremendous tracks of blood beneath them. And his tie is askew. He rights it, using the kettle as a mirror.

_Click, click, click._

“Here.” Naomi sets the West Virginia mug across the desk, turning the handle towards Castiel.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it. “The man said I saved his brother’s life. What had happened to him? To Sam, I mean?”

Naomi shrugs and leans back in her leather chair, coffee cradled in her hands. “I can’t quite recall. I believe an intestinal parasite of some sort. It was your vessel, in fact, who prayed for assistance.”

"I see. I’m glad I was able to help Sam, then.”

“Do you think it was a coincidence he contracted it?” Naomi looks at him with a malicious, fond smile. “Oh, Castiel. You know better.”

He does, but he still looks to Naomi with a sliver of hope.

Her gaze is withering.

Castiel sighs.  
 _  
Click, click, click._

He glances at his reflection again. The blood is dripping to his shirt, red suns spreading across cheap white cotton.

“Your coffee's getting cold, Castiel.”

“Apologies.” The mug is lukewarm to the touch, the brew--from what limited knowledge Castiel has on the subject of caffeine--exceptional. “That was a memory, I take it.”

From her spot across the desk, Naomi levels him with a pondering stare. She takes another sip of black coffee before setting her mug to the side, straightening in her chair and folding her hands neatly on the shiny wood. A pleasant smile affixes itself to her face and Naomi’s voice adopts a gray, neutral tone: “It was.”

Hesitant, Castiel ventures forth. “The first time I went to earth in a vessel. A vessel that prayed for help.”

“Indeed.”

"But it was, in fact, planned for me to be there."

"As we do."

“...how many more memories like this are there?”

“I suppose today’s the day we find out.” Naomi looks him up once, down twice. "Perhaps we should have exterminated you when we had the chance, yet it was put forth that your devotion to Michael's vessel would only increase your chances of success when it was time to raise him from Hell. That mission was too critical. We still needed you."

"And who put forth such an idea?"

Naomi's lip curls as she says it: "Gabriel."

Castiel can’t help but to snort a bitter, sad laugh.

“Who among us would have ever thought that you would lust after the Righteous Man?”

“It’s not lust.”

_Click, click, click._

“Oh, but it is.” Naomi shakes her head. “Why do you keep forgetting that I know everything about you?”

Castiel wants to put forth protest at such a filthy accusation, but finds he can't. Not any more.

“To be perfectly honest with you, Castiel, these long-gone memories haven’t resurfaced until this procedure. It may be that your grace is losing some of its elasticity.”

“Elasticity?”

“Stretch anything far enough and it will break. A rubber band, a piece of clay... Your grace, your luck, your faith in humanity.” Naomi gives a slight shrug. “It’s just one of those pesky laws of the universe.”

Castiel nods because Naomi’s words make sense. Everything breaks, eventually. His hand trembles when he lifts his mug to his lips, though he is not as certain why. “Are we finished here?” Castiel asks after a small, timid sip of milk and coffee.

“No, far from it. In fact,” Naomi says, pointing to the surgical chair beside them, “we should resume. I believe our coffee break is over.”

_Click, click, click._

Castiel stands, places his cup back on the desk and shuffles over towards the chair.


End file.
